


hold my hands (until i let go)

by boking



Series: Perks of Being In Love With You [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentioned Miya Atsumu, Mentions of poop, Not Beta Read, Protective Miya Osamu, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, We Die Like Men, dramatic suna rintarou, suna rintarou is a baby, why isnt that a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:42:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boking/pseuds/boking
Summary: it’s dramatic, really. the fat tears of rintarou cascades like a fucking stream, no, waterfall, and pools on his chin. his brows are furrowed and his red-rimmed eyes are literally begging for osamu to, "stay, stay, stay, and hold my hand like you promised me you would."or, rintarou shits and he needs osamu's help.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Series: Perks of Being In Love With You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023115
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	hold my hands (until i let go)

**Author's Note:**

> rintarou is shitting. that's it.

“you promised, ‘samu! you promised you won’t leave!”

the said man almost feels sorry for breaking his promise, but given with the current predicament, he’d gladly choose to crush the promise, smash it to the ground like a fucking glass, and maybe step on it with both of his feet. if atsumu were here, he would probably ask for his help, thank you very much.

"'taro, baby-”

“no!”

it’s dramatic, really. the fat tears of rintarou cascades _like a fucking stream, no, waterfall,_ and pools on his chin. his brows are furrowed and his red-rimmed eyes are literally begging for osamu to _stay, stay, stay, and hold my hand like you promised me you would._

it’s a pity; the view, osamu thinks. he could almost feel the regret on his tongue for the sin he is about to do, but what needs to be done, must be done, and for all of his love for rintarou, sometimes, there are just moments that need to be dealt with alone. fights, osamu convinces himself, that need to be fought as a lone soldier.

and rintarou needs to understand that. it’s basic knowledge that in life, we can never fully get what we truly want.

for all of osamu’s endless and unconditional love, rintarou must discern how it is to be left alone for a while, away from osamu, and face his battles alone.

it is hard, osamu knows. but it is a universal challenge that rintarou alone must brave.

with that, osamu forcefully pries his hands away from rintarou’s strong grip and _fuck, his boyfriend really needs to shut up with the ugly wails of distress._

his miserable boyfriend shakes his head wildly and clutches on the next thing he has access to: osamu’s thighs. 

see, the both of them knew each other since they were in their poop-filled and piss-heavy diapers. osamu had seen rintarou eat dirt, soil, mucus, and _atsumu’s fucking booger,_ for crying out loud. from every little detail of the most embarrassing day in middle school to the most mundane things that rintarou did, does, and will do, osamu thinks the element of surprise has been long decided to be not a factor in their rather comical relationship.

so, why, on barren earth, is he shocked to discover the knowledge that when rintarou cries, he suddenly de-ages and turns into an actual baby crying for his goddamn milk? 

fat, salty 'taro teardrops seep through the cotton of his pajamas and osamu sighs for what seems to be the ninth time today. it’s only seven on a saturday morning and he has not taken a single sip of his coffee.

“'taro, baby, i’ll just be by the door, i promise,” he compromises to a weeping, just-woke-up rintarou. taking his standing position to an advantage, he gently swipes his fingers through his boyfriend’s nasty bed hair to somehow appease him. apparently, he has now committed treason and rintarou, true to his famed animal counterpart, has always howled for the wrong reasons.

a violent shake of the head is what he gets as a reply and osamu buries his face in his free hand. honestly, if it weren’t for the situation, and with his boyfriend’s face currently planted directly in front of his pajama-clad crotch, he would’ve unashamedly asked for a little head. but of _-fucking-_ course, he is living with a man with a flair for the dramatics and having the uncanny ability to make something as anticlimactic as pooping seem like a life-and-death situation.

finally, osamu places his hands on the back of rintarou’s head (yeah, maybe i should just push him a little bit) and tugs at the hairs as delicately as his impatience could offer. on cue, his boyfriend looks up at him and _fuck, yes, that’s a nice fucking view,_ sniffles pathetically, eyes begging to be comforted and babied like the actual child that he is. 

seven years in, suna rintarou still makes him go soft and fond even when his dick is in the exact opposite mess of the realization his heart is going on with right now. 

“‘samu…”

soft strokes on tender cheeks commence. _and osamu falls in love again, again, and all over again._

“hm?”

“don’t leave me, please?” 

rintarou bats an eyelash slowly and osamu concludes that he is nothing but a man made solely to accomplish whatever whims that a certain suna rintarou utters. never mind how outrageous and stupid the situation is. miya osamu would shoot a dart to the moon if that’s what his love wants him to.

“can’t i just stay by the door, darlin’? i won’t even dare close it even if the smell of your week-old shit sprays itself on the air. my arms are pretty long, so i can still hold your hand if i sit there.”

it was worth a shot, really; the painful smack he got was deserved too.

“you promised never to leave my side, ‘samu,” a soft whimper from his person tugs at both the left and right arteries of osamu’s heart. one more whine from rintarou and he’d go find a seat, drag it right across their fucking toilet where his boyfriend sits, make himself comfortable, and look at rintarou right at the eyes while he pushes the fucking stubborn stool right out of his intestines. 

“i think this situation calls for a safe exception, doll,” he reasons as he wipes the never-ending tears that flow out of the corners of _doll’s_ eyes. 

rintarou rubs his eyes and then stares. osamu takes the challenge and raises his brows.

"do you not love me anymore?"

just then, rintarou’s lips quiver slightly and _no, not on my watch,_ osamu angrily thinks.

in his sleep-addled state, rintarou sobs even more and osamu just resigns to the fact that he was going to have his morning coffee in the bathroom. a casual saturday morning in the miya osamu residence. nothing he couldn’t shrug off, that’s for sure.

“i’m gonna go an’ get a chair. i’ll be right back, doll,” he yields and rintarou’s hold on his thighs significantly loosens. “don’t move a muscle,” he attempts to joke and of course his boyfriend just looks at him as if he has just told him that he has kicked a puppy accidentally. 

osamu retracts his sentence. “jus’ kiddin’. what i meant to say was ‘don’t shit without me’.”

rintarou nods softly and hangs his head low, signs of sleep still obvious from his lack of answer and osamu coos at how mellow he is. “hurry back, please.”

finding a chair was easy enough to be done in under a few seconds so osamu decides to get his phone to entertain himself while he sits in front of his pooping boyfriend. _fuck, the things he does for rintarou._

_“you spoil him too much, ‘samu!” he remembers atsumu yelling at him while he carefully recites rintarou’s mcdonald’s favorite meal at two thirty in the morning. “one day, you’ll find yourself helpin’ sunarin take his dick out whenever he wants to piss!” his twin curses and osamu smiles nervously as he recalls what happened two days ago._

_“mind your business, you fuckin’ octopus,” he quips back, beaming apologetically at the innocent employee who was sporting either a massive blush or a bad case of make-up. “i didn’t ask you to come with, anyway, so what’s your fatass griping so loudly for?”_

_“i’m tellin’ you, sweet brother-”_

_“i’m gonna fuckin’ deck you-”_

_“sir, uh, your payment, please.”_

_“just a second. let me deal with this dumbass.”_

_“i’m callin’ it, ‘samu! he’s jus’ usin’ you and your stupid, blind ass! and don’t even excuse it because you love him! i’ve been lovin’ omi-omi for three years now and-”_

_osamu fumes and pinches his twin’s neck. “shut your fucking mouth!”_

when he reaches the bathroom, it’s to see rintarou with concentration heavily painted on his face, sweat on his temple, and cheeks squished up to _just push it all away._

osamu chuckles. “still good, doll? need help?”

“you’re breaking my focus. shut up,” comes the blunt reply and osamu releases a full belly laugh this time. he sits himself on the chair he’s brought and looks at rintarou closely, watching for any hint of discomfort, _because fuck you, atsumu! i’m whipped and in love!_

osamu briefly wonders when he made sitting through a poop appointment as the benchmark for how much a person loves somebody. 

“hands,” he simply commands and rintarou follows through, sweaty palms extended for osamu to take, and when he does, a soft, contented gasp is released as his boyfriend rubs easy circles on his palms. “good, 'taro? jus' keep pushing, doll.”

osamu briefly considers coaching as a future job as he leans closer to rintarou's face and whispers words of empowerment that sounded suspiciously as, _'that's right', 'push harder', 'no, don't push your tummy', 'clench your buttcheeks',_ and his personal favorite, _'push hard and don't suddenly clench or it's gonna get cut up.'_

“almost done,” he murmurs as his eyes remain closed. “sleep after, ‘samu.”

“clean and then sleep,” osamu corrects, voice slowly slurring with drowsiness too as he observes rintarou’s sluggish state. 

after a few more minutes and a short bath, he dries rintarou with a fluffy towel and leads them both back to their bed; backs pressing against soft blankets and the sweet fragrance of the rainy morning wraps the room, effectively lulling them to sleep. 

as rintarou uses his arm as makeshift pillow and snuggles closer to his armpit, osamu thinks that love, in their language, is not just about the romance it brings nor the fleeting moments of overjoy and butterflies rampaging inside their stomach; sometimes, well, at least to osamu and rintarou, love is as simple as the contentment and comfort it brings to each other.

osamu looks at the sleeping man cuddled beside him and thinks of home.

every so often, love, for osamu, is spelled whenever he holds rintarou’s hands as he journeys to the bathroom to shit himself empty. 

he is, indeed, home.

**Author's Note:**

> this was brought upon by my endless adventure in the toilet sorry i just want someone to hold my hand while i shit iS IT THAT HARD


End file.
